


Black Musings

by ravenously



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, also as usual i use way too much german, am i allowed to write anything happy? no, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:19:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1383889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenously/pseuds/ravenously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim's not always lucid, and Sebastian always has to pick up the pieces that he leaves behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Musings

He tips his head back and bares his teeth to the ceiling, whispering in German and Russian and English, each sentence a mixture, a mixture. A mixture, quite like the blood and the spit and the sweat below his hands.

No parse of thoughts, all a disjointed mess of confusion, Cyrillic and Latin and Germanic. Scientific and philosophical and mathematical. 

"Ahhh… Mein Spatz…" He murmurs as Sebastian steps into the room, giving a short giggle, a flash of a smile, so white so white. "Was beduetet… Mmm… ‘Schatz…?’"

He’s practically feral at this point, bared teeth and wild brown eyes, head leaned back against the wall he’s currently leaned against, fingers splayed absentmindedly in the blood that’s under his entire body. The crimson mixes well with the pale skin, a stark contrast, and lord, but Sebastian hates to think of something like that.

And god, at moments like this, the sniper thinks there’s too many teeth, too much absent energy thrumming from that man, a dangerous concoction of delicious murderous insanity and wild uncivilized genius.

Sebastian frowns, blue-green (Turquoise, turquoise, English Jim, English) eyes dancing around the room for a moment before landing on the sliver of glass that did it, brow lowering in brief anger before concern takes over. “‘Treasure,’ Jim. It means treasure. And that glass in your hand is no such thing.” He says it all softly, slowly, eyes dancing around cleanly still for any other weapons, any other dangers, fists clenching white where they’re balled up.

Jim glances up at him for a second, two, eyes so full of absent insanity, of psychosis, before he murmurs, “Ahhh. Tsk, tsk, Sebastian. One wears their heart on their sleeves. Or… Lack thereof…” And for someone so obviously out of reality, far far away, he truly is astute of the most obvious of facts, at the fact that Sebastian wears no shirt. So, at least it’s not complete vacancy. 

He leans forward, crouches, really, and gingerly takes the shard of glass from Jim’s hand, running his other hand down the man’s face for some abstract sense of comfort, shhing the man as he shudders and begins to weep silently,tears falling down his face. 

All the more to mix with the blood and sweat and saliva already mixing on the floor in some red mixture. 

Runs a hand down the Irishman’s jaw, settles himself on his knees in front of Jim, grabs his wrists. “It is no treasure to do this, Jim.” He continues, knowing the man so loves his littler word plays and continuation thereof. “It’s a waste.” His faint German-accented voice makes the crying man shiver, still so absent, and Sebastian gives out a faint sigh, swiping a gentle hand across the cuts that lie there. “Count cubic roots.”

He suppresses a sigh of relief as the man does so- in English, no less, that’s a good sign- mindlessly counting upwards as Sebastian cleans him up, leaving the room only to get bandages and cleaning solutions.

Sebastian continues the duty of wrapping Jim up- coddling him, his mind supplies- and only pauses when Jim stops his counting to mutter, “Gah. Fucked. It’s all fucked. Every bit. Little Jimmy babied by the Tiger…” before he shhes the man again, encouraging more counting.

The higher he counts, the steadier the heartbeat, as it is, until Jim is nearly asleep where he sits, wrists bandaged and blood cleaned away. The sniper carries him from the cool bathroom to his bed, grunting only when the man haphazardly slaps him in the face in near-drunken indignation. 

"Nein… Mein Spatz…" Sebastian corrects coolly, as he bundles the half-catatonic Jim in three separate blankets, shucking off his own boots and denim to lay beside him, sharing body heat. He smiles slowly as Jim’s eyes droop, the criminal’s lips curving up lazily in return, snuggling in closer to the shorter man, snuffling into his dark hair. "Sleep, love." 

And in an act to defy all gods, Jim obeys, half-lidded eyes closing the rest of the way, breath evening out under the care and protection of his tiger, of his Seb. In some facade of domesticity, of calmness of normality.


End file.
